The Untraceable Enemy
by bethanyyerinn
Summary: A mysterious enemy makes things personal when he takes the thing Dean cherishes most. Dean must enlist the help of Sherlock and John to get it back. A sequel to "The Consulting Hunter", also by me. Note: Takes place long after Reichenbach.
1. An Uncomfortable Reunion

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**Also, this is the sequel to another story, called "The Consulting Hunter", which can be found on my page.**

**Also again, This story is supposed to lack shipping, because that's not what I want the focus to be, so I apologize if my Johnlock and Destiel tendencies shine through. I can't help it. **

**Rated T for some language.**

* * *

Sam was the one that called, because Dean couldn't believe they had to stoop to this level. Again.

They had called Bobby already and he had no clue what was going on. People were vanishing, but as far as Sam or Dean could tell, there were no clues at all. Not even one.

So there Sam was, on the phone with _him_. Dean was standing close enough that he could hear the conversation.

"Sam Winchester," the smooth, haughty voice said, not needing to ask who was calling.

"Hi Sherlock," Sam said awkwardly.

"Are you finding yourselves in need of my assistance?"

Dean grumbled, but Sam elbowed him in the stomach. "Yeah, actually."

"Tell me what's happening."

"People are being kidnapped."

A short silence. "That wasn't terribly helpful. Could you, perhaps, elaborate?"

"He's being so polite today," Dean said dryly.

Sam covered the mouth piece. "Dean, shut up. We need his help." He uncovered it. "That's the thing, there isn't anything else to tell you. We can't find any clues. No blood, no sulfur, no sign of struggle, no ectoplasm… nothing."

Sam could almost hear Sherlock's interest peaking over the phone. "Serial disappearances with no clues?" he said excitedly. Since it was normal to get excited about people vanishing and possibly dying. But they already knew Sherlock had a fascination with bad things happening to people, so Sam said nothing. "What about a pattern?"

"There isn't one."

"There's always a pattern."

Sam sighed. "Then we can't see it."

"Oh yes, this is perfect!" Sherlock sang. "I can't miss this one. John and I will be there in a few minutes."

"Minutes? Aren't you in Lond—" And that's when the line went dead.

"Did you even tell him where we are?"

"Nope."

"He's a weird son of a bitch, man."

"I know."

Sam and Dean were about to get into the Impala to go back to the motel when Sherlock Holmes and John Watson appeared in front of the car… with Castiel.

"Cas?" Dean grunted, getting back out.

"Hello Dean."

"You went and picked them up?" Dean asked.

"It seems," Sherlock said before Cas could answer, "that your angel is mildly enthralled with John. He comes to visit sometimes. So when John called, he answered. And here we are."

Sam got out too, looking at his brother. He had to try really hard not to laugh at the look on Dean's face, because he knew what it was: jealousy.

"You and John are all buddy-buddy now?" Dean demanded of Cas.

"I'm allowed to talk to other humans," Cas reminded him.

"Dean's just upset that you got a new favorite," Sherlock said.

"Nobody asked you!" Dean hollered at Sherlock, who smirked. "Do you just like pissing people off?"

"All I do is tell the truth, people just don't like it. Especially you. I hardly have to say a thing and you're already yelling. If you just spent a little less time eating and more time observing, maybe you would see these things too." Sherlock looked Dean up and down. "Though I doubt even that would help _you."_

"Sherlock," John muttered.

Sherlock had one of his very frequent mood swings, then, suddenly looking furious. "Stop trying to get me to behave, John! I'm not a child!"

"Then stop acting like one."

Sherlock turned to John, glaring at him murderously.

"Would it make this argument stop if I said that Dean is still my favorite human?" Castiel asked.

Dean looked a little embarrassed. "That does make me feel a little better, yeah."

"How old are you?" Sam asked.

"Shut up."

Then they both looked to John and Sherlock, who were having a glaring contest.

"Sherlock, please. Could you _try_ to cooperate for just a day or two?" he paused, then spoke a little more quietly. "You know I've been waiting for them to call ever since they left," he admitted. The boys looked to each other in surprise.

"You never said it out loud, but it was obvious," muttered Sherlock.

"And if you keep on being a git, then they'll make us leave."

"They'll just make _me_ leave. You can stay," Sherlock suggested.

John smiled a little. "You know I wouldn't do this without you," he said. This made what was left of Sherlock's glare go away. "So if you could not ruin this for me, that'd be great."

Sherlock was quiet. Dean and Sam couldn't help but marvel at the way that John could tame the shrew that was Sherlock Holmes. It was like John was the only thing that spoke to his humanity at all. Dean shuttered to think what Sherlock would have been like before he knew John. Maybe that was part of why Castiel was so fascinated with him. If he could keep Sherlock under control, what else could he do?

"It's starting to get dark," Sherlock said to the boys, his voice much more subdued now. All the usual arrogance was gone. "I suppose you are staying at a hotel, by the smell of you."

"Smell?" Dean muttered, sniffing himself. Did he smell bad?

"The generic soap that can't be bought in stores. Either you carry it around with you—which I doubt, because it doesn't smell or feel great—or you recently bathed at a motel."

Sam suddenly found himself intrigued. "You can really guess things like that?" he asked.

"Don't get him started," John said.

"What can you see about me?"

"Oh no, now you've done it," John muttered. Sherlock ignored him, looking Sam up and down.

"Much of it is obvious, things anyone could see. Your clothes are old and worn, bought for you years ago. You also have your hair grown long. Both suggest that you don't particularly care about personal appearance. You do keep yourself clean shaven, however, so that means that you probably don't want to look too out of place. Everything about your clothes make it seem that you are trying to blend in, in fact, but that is probably hard, considering your size. Your shoes are in very bad shape, which implies you are very active, as do your physique. You stand with your shoulders squared and feet apart, as if in warning to anyone who talks to you that you could hurt them. The thing is, you're already extremely tall, so you don't need to do that to show you're not someone to trifle with, so this means you probably are a little insecure about how much damage you could actually do, which is obviously because of your older brother, Dean. You usually stand behind him, first of all, which makes it seem that you are usually following his lead, even though you are the brains of your duo. Which means that all throughout your life, you were taught that brawns are more important than brains. Your brother, he stands much more at ease than you, implying he is not in question of whether or not he could hurt someone, but unless he is in a conversation when he needs to be charming, he dons a pretty menacing glare, which is his way of keeping people away. He stands protectively in front of you, even in a casual conversation where he needs not worry about you getting hurt, which means that the action is subconscious, and thus it has been hardwired into his brain that he needs to protect you, maybe to a point that it hinders him protecting himself. Shall I go on?"

Sam blinked. "You honestly got all that from looking at me?"

"Or he guessed based on what he's already seen," Dean said.

"There was no guessing about it. It's the Science of Deduction. I think you could be rather good at it, if you tried," he said to Sam.

"It's what Sherlock does," John said. "I've seen him do it a thousand times. He really can see all those things just by looking at a person." He said it in some sort of reverence, like he really admired Sherlock.

"That's cool," Sam agreed.

"I also think that was 'cool'," Castiel added.

"Yeah, if you think weird as hell is cool," Dean said.

"Stop it," Sam muttered.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Let's just get back to the motel, okay?" Castiel vanished a second later and the other four got into the Impala.

"This is a great car," John said.

Dean smiled. "I know, right? Baby's pretty great."

"Usually 'baby' is used romantically, but I suppose I shouldn't assume you are in a relationship with your car."

"Sherlock, I thought you were being nice."

"I was only—" Sherlock started, but when John glared, he sighed. "Fine. I'm done."

They got back to the motel and John and Sherlock got the room next to Sam and Dean's.

"See you in the morning," Sam said to the other two. Dean didn't speak.

"It's just humiliating, having to call them," he said when Sam had shut the door.

"Dean, I can do all the talking, okay? He just needs to help for a little bit. It'll be fine. Okay?"

"Yeah, okay."

* * *

Dean woke up feeling like something was wrong immediately. He couldn't really say why.

Then he looked over to Sam's bed. It was empty. He stood up, looking in the bathroom. "Sam?" he muttered. He looked around for another few seconds and got a really bad feeling. "Sammy?"

He ran out the motel door, looking around. The car was still out there, which meant...

"SAMMY!"

A second later, John came rushing out of his room. "What's wrong? Why're you yelling?"

"Sam. The son of a bitch took Sam."


	2. The Invisible Clue

John was just staring at Dean. Sam was gone? When did that happen?

"How do you know?"

"He wouldn't just disappear like this, not unless we've been fighting. He would know I would assume he'd been taken, so he'd have left a note or something. And the car isn't gone."

The door opened again and Sherlock came out, already fully dressed.

_Please don't say something rude_, John thought in vain.

Sherlock only needed a quick glance to deduce what happened. "Your brother's gone. Oh, yes, this is perfect! It's just what we needed to—"

Sherlock was interrupted by Dean's fist meeting his face. John couldn't be sure how hard the guy could punch just by watching, but Sherlock actually fell over onto the ground, so he figured the hit hurt like hell.

"You listen to me, alright?" Dean started, his voice an even lower growl than usual in his rage, "I'm dealin' with you being here because we need your help and I know it. I'm tryin' not to get too irritated by the stupid annoying crap you say. But don't you _ever_ say that my brother being gone is a good thing."

Sherlock looked up, wiping blood from his mouth and nose. Dean had gotten him good, then. Sherlock stood.

"I wasn't saying it was good he was gone," he said, his tone of voice completely unchanged. "I only meant that the fact that he _is_ gone is quite helpful."

Dean looked about ready to sock him again, but instead he said, "And how is Sam being gone helpful?"

"Because the killer made a mistake. You said there was no pattern, no clues."

"There still isn't."

"Yes there is. Obviously they took Sam because they knew you were on to them. Meaning they have a sense of self-preservation."

"What the hell does that tell us?"

"I just told you. That it has a sense of self-preservation. So any creature that wouldn't is ruled off your list. Also, this is a crime scene to look at that the police haven't touched, which is also nice."

At that Sherlock strode past Dean and into the other motel room.

Dean looked at John with a petulant look on his face. "I'm not going to apologise for hitting him."

"Oh, I know," John replied, "I'm not asking you to. Like Sherlock said last time we met, I've hit him before. Though, I must say, you hit him a bit harder than I do."

Dean smiled a little. "Well, I guess I get a little protective when it comes to Sammy."

"Like Sherlock said," John said, not considering that this sentence might make Dean mad, but it didn't seem to.

"Yeah. I basically raised Sam. He's my responsibility."

"He's an adult though. He can take care of himself, can't he?"

Dean shrugged. "I feel better when he doesn't have to."

It was interesting to John because everyone always thought he and Sherlock's relationship was odd, being flat mates before they knew each other and the way they somehow got along sometimes when _nobody_ got along with Sherlock… but the dynamic of Sam and Dean was odd too. They had this bond that was… John didn't know how to explain it. They were brothers, of course, that was part of it, but it was more than that. They were so dependent on each other… like neither of them could go a day without the other.

John shook his head, smiling to himself. He was spending too much time around Sherlock and now he was starting to deduce things too.

"Let's go see what Sherlock's finding."

They walked in and he was standing in the center of the room, seeming to be doing nothing.

"Anything?" Dean asked tensely.

"I have everything I need, actually."

"You do?"

"Most definitely."

"And?"

"This isn't a supernatural enemy."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Your lock was picked, first off. It was done very efficiently, must have been someone who's quite good at it, but I could see the scratch marks just barely around the keyhole. And on Sam's pillow, there was a drop of something. Took me a moment to recognise it, since it's odorless, colourless, and nearly tasteless, but in the end that's exactly what told me what it was: GHB, also known as Liquid Ecstacy."

"And?" Dean asked.

"It's a Central Nervous System Depressant," John said. "It's been used in medicine to cure things like insomnia, but now mostly it's used as a date rape drug."

"So he was knocked out using a drug," Dean said.

"Meaning," Sherlock said, "I seriously doubt this was a creature. Ghosts and demons don't use date rape drugs, people do."

"I hate when it's people," Dean complained. "I mean, honestly, this is the second time Sam's been taken by some loonys."

"Is it really?" John asked.

"Yeah, it was these crazy people who like to hunt humans. Hillbilly psychos in the middle of nowhere."

"This won't be the same," Sherlock said. "This person was smart, efficient. Left no evidence of himself, not a fingerprint or a hair."

"But if it's not supernatural, shouldn't we leave it to the police?" John asked. He figured it was a silly question the second he asked it, which was confirmed by the looks on Sherlock's and Dean's faces.

"They won't figure it out," Sherlock said.

"I don't leave my brother to the cops," Dean said. "It's my job to find him."

"Alright, alright. So where do we start?"

"Where's the nearest construction site?" Sherlock asked.

"Construction?" Dean muttered.

"Yes. There was white powder on the ground outside, from before the person put on their protective shoe covers. Which means they've recently been at a site with lime on the ground. It's used in construction to stabilise the soil. So, a construction site. Also, this person has rather small feet, so we should look out for that."

"Um, right," Dean said. John figured he was feeling a little out of his league. Sherlock made everyone feel that way, even if he was talking about something the person should have been an expert in.

"So, that construction site!" Sherlock said. "Look it up! We don't know what's happening to your brother, so you might want to hurry."

Dean nodded tersely and went to his laptop to start looking.

"On fifth street there's a—" Dean started.

"That sounds right. For the powder to still be on their shoes, it couldn't be far. The person walked, of course."

"How do you know that?"

"You might be a light sleeper and might have heard the engine if they took a car. If this person is clever enough to do all of this," he gestured to the room, "they must have factored that much into their plan. They couldn't risk you waking up, because they were so small."

"I still don't get how you know all this."

"I observe. Any more questions?" Dean just glared. "Then let's go!"


	3. The Forgotten Past Reopened

Dean parked at the far end of the street at Sherlock's suggestion. Dean wanted to refuse just because it was Sherlock who said it, but he knew that it was a good idea, so he shut up about it. Sure, he didn't like the guy, but Sam was in trouble and he couldn't risk Sam's safety for some petty argument.

They got out of the car and Dean went straight to the trunk, opening it up.

"My god," John muttered. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you're a trained killer."

"I am," Dean said, "it's just not usually people." He pulled out all the weapons he could fit on him, guns with both normal shells and salt rounds, knives, and stakes.

"I thought we agreed this was a human," Sherlock said.

"Always be prepared," Dean said. He also had a bad feeling about this place and the more armed he was, the less anxious he usually felt. "Now, please tell me you two know how to use a gun."

Sherlock and John looked at each other, then smiled in a knowing way.

"What?" Dean grunted.

"I think we'll manage," John said, pulling out a sawn-off shotgun. "Are these salt rounds?"

Dean didn't know that John knew about salt rounds, so it took a moment for him to answer. "No, that's just lead pellets."

"Perfect," John said, handing it off to Sherlock.

"What about you?"

John pulled a pistol out of the back of his pants.

"Oh," Dean muttered.

"Always be prepared," John replied with a wry smile. Suddenly, Dean felt that John wouldn't be such a bad partner to have around for this, if he couldn't have Sam.

"Right, let's do this thing."

They walked into the house, which had no carpet or wallpaper. It looked like construction had either been abandoned recently or was being postponed, because the air was kind of musty, like people weren't in it much. In fact, Dean didn't think anyone had been in this area in weeks. Either this was the wrong house or they didn't go through this part of the house… In this area, most houses had storm cellars in case of tornadoes, whose doors would be outside…

That was when Sherlock and Dean both said something at the same time: "The cellar."

They looked at each other awkwardly, not asking how the other knew.

"That was weird," John said.

Nobody replied to him as they went outside and looked for the cellar door. Once they found it, they all looked to each other, and then nodded, and Dean lifted the doors as quietly as he could. He was surprised when there was a light down there, but he walked forward anyway. The room was extremely clean, considering it was a cellar.

There was an operating table in the middle, on which lay Sam. He met eyes with Dean when he entered, but said nothing. And standing over him was a rather small woman with dark wavy hair and a lab coat. She was actually rather beautiful, probably in her early forties. Dean was a little startled by it, but kept his gun up. He knew that pretty made a person more dangerous, not less. There was a door behind her too, one that must've led to the inside of the house. He thought that was a little odd, but didn't question it.

She was looking Dean over with a little smile. "I thought you might come," she said.

"Let my brother go," he growled.

"And why would I do that? I need him."

"For what?"

"His lungs," she said matter-of-factly.

"If you don't give me Sam, you're going to regret it," Dean continued.

"Why? Because of those guns? Doubtful."

"You think I won't shoot you?"

She just smiled. Dean came forward a few more steps, feeling John following in his wake. Or he figured it was John, because Sherlock was the one that was likely to disappear.

That was when Dean got knocked in the back of his head, his gun sliding across the room. Someone fell next to him too, and he glanced and saw that it was Sherlock. So John _was_ the one that was missing. Where had he gone?

Then Dean was being picked up and held by both his arms. Whoever was holding him was extremely strong.

"Couldn't do the heavy lifting on your own, not being that size," Sherlock said. "Should've guessed. But how did they avoid leaving prints at the motel?"

Dean thought it was silly to expect her to talk, but she smiled, seeming happy to chat. "I stepped in the lime deliberately, leaving a small print. I thought it would bring you here, the lime, and I was right. The small print was so you would underestimate who you were dealing with."

"So who are we dealing with?" Dean muttered.

Her smile faded. "See, you killed my father."

"Did we?" Dean asked.

"Yes. So this was a win-win situation. I needed some lungs because of my smoking in my youth, so why wouldn't I take them from the ones who took my father away from me?"

"If we took him away, guaranteed he was a bad guy."

"He was a genius, that's what he was. I got that from him." She looked down at Sam. "Don't worry, it will only hurt a _lot_."

That was when the door behind the woman opened and John stepped out, took aim, and shot the woman before she could even look to see someone was there.

It was a perfect shot, right through her heart.

And she was just standing there, grinning. John just stood there, in shock.

"I thought you said it wasn't supernatural," Dean said.

"It still isn't," he said. "It's science."

She smiled. "So, you've heard of my work, have you?"

"I saw your father's in a journal recently. The moment you said you needed the lungs, I could tell who you were. There was a picture of him in life, in the journal, and you were in it."

She smirked.

"Wait, I don't understand," Dean said.

"This is Dr. Wilma Benton. Does the name Doc Benton sound familiar?" Doc Benton was a crazy guy Sam and Dean had dealt with in the past, a doctor who had found the scientific formula for immortality. He had tried to take Sam's eye before Dean came in and stabbed the guy with a chloroform knife and locked him in a freezer with chains. They couldn't figure out any other way to gank him.

"Yeah, I remember. Are you saying she's related?"

"His daughter, actually. You had a picture from a newspaper article in your father's journal on the page talking about him. It was him and the rest of his family. I recognized his daughter's face once I made the connection that she was related to him."

"You're a lot prettier than he was," Dean mentioned.

"He didn't have the technology I do. I used to look like him, but I fixed that as soon as I could. And I learned better ways to do what he did, ways I didn't get caught. Take the bodies, leave no evidence, and burn them. I'd never been noticed until now, and that's because I wanted you to notice."

"So did daddy teach you to do this?" Dean asked.

"He didn't teach me, I looked at his notes. Copied them. He didn't know I was doing it until he had already left. He couldn't stay around, of course, not when he never got older. But still, I have him to thank that I am still alive, so I am rather peeved that you killed him. Or disposed of him, because he can't die." Then she looked over at Sherlock, smiling. "Actually, I've seen a picture of you too. You were in the papers in London. I keep up to date on a lot of things. When you've been around as long as me, you get bored. The great Sherlock Holmes, the man who died and came back. Almost as impressive as me." Dean had no idea what she was talking about, but nobody seemed like they were going to explain. "But that was just a trick. How would you like to be immortal, truly immortal? Your cleverness could live on forever. All you have to do is let this go, let me take Sam and Dean, and you and your friend can be safe. And I'll teach you the secret."

Would Sherlock sell Dean and his brother out for his own safety? Dean wasn't sure, but he wasn't liking his odds of survival in that moment.

Dean considered that after all this time of beating death, he might have finally been beaten. It all depended on Sherlock Holmes.


	4. Killing the Unkillable

Dean looked over to Sherlock, but Sherlock was focusing wholly on John, so he didn't bother to look over. Sherlock was sure that Dean was expecting Sherlock to give he and his brother up, but Dean didn't understand Sherlock as much as he wanted to suppose. Sherlock always kept himself separated from others to a point, wanted to be more than just a man… even the thought of immortality wasn't terribly unattractive. But the thing was, as much as people liked to deny it, Sherlock Holmes had a heart. And that heart was John. Sherlock hadn't cared for other people until John came around, revealing that humanity had it's good qualities. And John would never have left Sam and Dean to die, so Sherlock couldn't bring himself to either.

John and Sherlock were just looking at each other. John, like the good little soldier he was, was waiting for Sherlock to give the order.

So Sherlock nodded infinitesimally to John, giving him the go-ahead.

And John took aim twice more, shooting the men who were holding Sherlock and Dean in the head. Sherlock and Dean landed on their feet, and Dean had a most satisfying look of surprise on his face as he looked between John and the dead hulks.

Dr. Benton looked worried. She knew that she couldn't take all three of them—four of them if they got Sam off the table—not with her diminutive size. Sherlock already knew that they had won.

The problem was, how to dispose of her? Obviously, they couldn't injure her. Dean and Sam jotted down in their father's journal—that Sherlock had borrowed when they came to London and read all of—that they had locked him in a ice box with chains and buried it. Sure, that made him disposed of in a sense, but Sherlock knew that there was no way to be truly immortal. She had to be beatable.

As Sherlock thought these things, Dean and John started circling the woman, ready to grab her.

"You know," Dean said, "We didn't actually kill him, if that makes you feel better. We stabbed him with a knife dipped in chloroform, which knocked him out, and then buried him."

She stopped circling. "Where?" she snapped.

"If you let my brother go, maybe we can talk about it."

Her manic expression of hope faded. "You're lying," she said.

Sherlock thought it was actually fairly clever of Dean, saying that. Because Sherlock could tell he wasn't lying, it was obvious, but because he told her straight out when he didn't need to, she figured it was a lie to manipulate her.

"Believe what you want, but either way, you aren't going to be doing so well after this."

They continued to stare at each other, as if all waiting for the right moment to pounce.

Sherlock thought he would make himself useful by releasing Sam. He approached the table and went to untie him, but then looked to Sam's face. He looked frightened. That wasn't normal for Sam, especially not when the battle was won like this.

Sam looked Sherlock in the eyes, as if willing him to understand something. Sherlock, irritatingly, didn't understand, so he went to reach for the leather straps around Sam's wrists again, but Sam grunted. He looked back at his face and, further perplexing Sherlock, shook his head, only a little so only Sherlock would notice.

Sam knew something. Somehow, they were all still in danger.

That was when Sherlock saw that Sam was not looking at Sherlock anymore. He was looking up at the ceiling. Sherlock glanced up at the spot he was looking at and suddenly everything made sense. Sherlock thought that Dr. Benton had been hiding something in her hand when they walked in, which was why Sherlock had told John to go into the house and sneak up on her. Now he knew what was in her hand. He could even see the little silver item clenched in her fingers.

On the ceiling was a small explosive. It wasn't big enough to make the whole house explode or anything, but it was enough that the ceiling would fall in. Because, of course, she could survive that, but if the room actually blew up, then she would be all separated and—

That was it. Sherlock figured it out. Not even she could survive with all of her body parts strewn about. All they had to do what cut her up, and maybe burn the parts for good measure, and there was no way even she could survive that.

But the question was, how could they incapacitate her with that detonator in her hand?

Sherlock scanned the room, looking for something. He had to think fast too, because anything John or Dean did could trigger Dr. Benton pressing the button. Think. _Think_!

A million possibilities went through his head all at once, all implausible.

Then it came to him. Dean said that he incapacitated the original Doc Benton with chloroform. That meant that he was affected by it. There was no chloroform in the room, but there was GHB, in syringes on the small bench next to the operating table. So if he injected her with it, she would be out for long enough to deal with her.

But how were they supposed to inject her with it?

That answer came to him immediately. Distract her.

All of this thinking happened in less than a second or two, so it had hardly been silent for five seconds by the time Sherlock spoke. "Immortality," Sherlock said. "You could give me immortality."

Sherlock came forward, passing the bench with the syringes on it and grabbing one, holding it behind his back. He stepped forward enough that Dean and John could see behind his back.

"Of course I could."

"And I could be young, forever? Never have to succumb to the degrading of the mind that comes with old age?"

"Never," she agreed with a sly smile. He risked another step closer, but at this point she wasn't expecting an attack.

"How?"

She smirked. "Let me deal with these two and I'll show you. And maybe the third too, for killing my friends."

Sherlock nodded. "By all means," he said.

So she began to walk past, and just then the syringe was taken from his hand. Sherlock took that moment to get himself ready to grab the detonator from her hand.

Then Dean thrust the GHB into her neck and jammed down the plunger.

"Sleep well, bitch," he growled as she fell to the ground.

The second she fell, he went over to Sam, cutting him out of the leather restraints. John was paying attention to Sherlock, however. "What's that?" he asked.

"The detonator to the bomb on the ceiling."

John looked up and his jaw might have dropped, but he was quite tempered to Sherlock saying surprising things like that.

"Good thing you noticed, or we'd all be dead."

"Except her," Sherlock added. "This won't last long," he addressed to Dean, "Not on her. You need to chop her up and burn the parts. Keep them separate."

Dean stopped worrying over Sam for a moment. "You think that'll work?"

"It should," Sam said. "How could she get herself out of that?"

Dean nodded. "I'm on it."


	5. Mutual Respect

John and Sherlock stood in the corner as Dean cut her up. He kept looking at them as if he expected them to get squeamish, but they both watched.

Then, as they took the pieces outside to burn, Dean was staring at Sherlock again.

"What?" Sherlock snapped.

"It's just… she said something about you dying and coming back. What was that about?"

Sherlock glanced to John, who was trying to keep an expressionless face, but Sherlock could see the pain in his eyes just from hearing it referenced. They promised never to talk about the fall again years ago, soon after he got back. It took so long to get things back to normal, to get Lestrade to trust him again. All he and John wanted was to forget it ever happened, to pretend that _he_ wasn't out there, waiting, biding his time. Because if Sherlock lived, so did _he_.

"What, you question me for coming back from the dead when you've done it a dozen times?" Sherlock asked with a smirk.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Whatever, I don't care."

Sherlock thought it was funny because Dean figured he wasn't answering just to be petty, not for any specific reason. People assumed interesting things about Sherlock, and Sherlock sometimes let them. They didn't need to understand him. He just needed to understand them.

They watched the fires together, all silent for a few minutes.

"So John, you were pretty impressive," Dean said.

"Thank you," John said in his gruff voice that meant he was secretly flattered.

"How did you learn to shoot like that?"

"Afghanistan."

Dean was silent. "You really do want to be a hunter?" he asked.

John shrugged. "It would never get boring," he said.

"No, it wouldn't," Dean said, suddenly sounding and looking much older than he was. Sherlock considered that even though Dean acted like a child sometimes… maybe he only did it to hide all the pain he felt constantly.

"But, honestly John," Sam said, "We're in this because we were raised in it. And once you start, you never leave." Sherlock sensed extreme bitterness in this comment. "So if you start… just know that."

"But really," John said. "You save lives doing this, don't you?"

Dean nodded. "All the time."

"So do you think it's worth it?"

Dean and Sam looked at each other as if having some sort of silent communication.

"Some days it's really hard," Sam said. "Sometimes it's hard to understand why we do this, help people who don't even believe in what we're fighting… but yeah, it's worth it."

"Plus," Dean said with that charming grin of his, "Killing evil sons of bitches can be a lot of fun. And the gig is not without its perks."

Sam smiled like he had heard the line before.

It was quiet again. "And, uh, Sherlock," Dean said.

"Hm?"

"You… well, you kept us from getting blown up. So I guess you did good too."

Sherlock gave Dean a wry smile. "And you knew to take the syringe," Sherlock said. "So… you weren't horrible either."

They were quiet, probably realising simultaneously that they had a respect for each other that they didn't before.

"Wow, this is an adorable moment, I'd hate to ruin it," Sam said dryly, "but when people see the smoke, they might call the cops. We need to bury these parts separately and get out of here."

They nodded and set to work.

* * *

They got back to the motel, feeling awfully tired considering it was only noon. Sam especially, since he'd been drugged a few hours before. John called Cas again, who was ready to take the other two back to England.

The five men found themselves standing in a circle, looking at each other.

"If you have any supernatural trouble, call us up, you hear?" Dean asked. Sam smiled because Dean only added 'you hear' to the end of sentences towards people he worried about.

"Though I think John might be able to take care of himself," Sam added.

"Probably. Meaning we'll call you if we need help too, okay?"

"Good," John said with a smile, shaking the boy's hands. Then Sherlock shook Sam's hand and Sherlock and Dean stopped to take a look at each other. Then, at the same time, they both reached out and grasped each other's hands.

"Thanks for the help," Dean said. Sherlock nodded.

"Hello Castiel. To 221B Baker Street, please," John said.

"Please. I don't hear that often," Cas said before the three of them vanished.

"So, do you want to never talk to him again _this_ time?" Sam asked.

Dean was quiet for a moment. "Maybe he's not as bad as I thought."

Sam grinned. "Try to remember that next time you see him when you're ready to rip his throat out."

Dean rolled his eyes, and they got into the Impala to go off to the next hunt.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! I had planned for it to actually over this time (for the sake of the novels I write, social life, and homework)... but that didn't happen, as you can tell by the fact that there's another chapter. Now, while you're down here reading this, you should send me a review! Tell me how bad the story sucked, or that you liked it, or that you think I'm weird looking, whatever, just say SOMETHING! =] Thanks again!**


	6. The Secret of the Fall

**Alright, readers. I have no idea how this happened, but enough people told me to write another (again) that I am now writing a third installment to this Superlock. It's going to be called "The Secret of the Fall" and will be more focused on John and Sherlock than Dean and Sam this time. **

**If you'd like to take a look, it's on my page.**

**A warning though, chapters will be coming out slower this time. **

**Hope you take a look!**


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